


The Sky God's Final Descent

by Punk_Kenobi



Category: Cabin Pressure
Genre: All ye who enter here, But without the comfort really, Dependency, Hurt/Comfort, I deeply apologize, M/M, Memory Loss, Post-MJN, SWEET JESUS WHAT HAVE I DONE, What Have I Done, alzheimer's
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-20
Updated: 2013-11-20
Packaged: 2018-01-02 04:57:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,760
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1052782
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Punk_Kenobi/pseuds/Punk_Kenobi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>It was just one name, one name three years ago.</i>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>The story of one man in decline and his captain who cushions the fall.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Sky God's Final Descent

**Author's Note:**

> Firstly, this was not my idea. Thank wombats-echo for this heartbreaking story being in existence. Consider this a dedication, hon. I love you but goddamn.
> 
> Anyone with fears of this sort of subject matter or anyone who might be easily upset by it, please use caution and heed the tags.
> 
> Secondly, I've tried to make his decline as realistic as possible by mixing the symptoms of different stages together. I have three family members all with severe dementia and Alzheimer's so several things are similar and a lot of things here I've seen in person. I love them very much and it's hard to see them, including my own grandfather, become so badly off. But that's what can happen after spending the better part of sixty or seventy years at the bottom of a moonshine bottle, I guess. So yeah, this isn't completely fudged from fiction and internet searches.
> 
> Thirdly, this is un-beta'd as usual. I've left their locations vague partly because of the fact that they're not too necessary, but also that I'm not English and that I don't have anyone to Brit-pick for me.

 

\-------------

Martin's never sure what mood he'll find Douglas in. Sometimes it's one of anger over a nurse trying to help him with one thing or another, throwing the familiar and typical accusations of being an impostor or a fake around before being placated back into contentment with one of his favorite sonatas being played quietly on the stereo system he's allowed to have, complaining that his things are kept in a certain order and supposed to be kept  _just so_. When the more severe incidents occur, Martin's rarely allowed to visit at the time and is told to return later. He could get hurt, or at the very least be in the way while the nurses and orderlies make Douglas calm down. Something hard to do, given the man is still six-foot one, though his weight's gone down, but what he now lacks in bulk is made up for with stubbornness.

 

Most times, though, Douglas' outbursts are easily taken care of and he and Martin stroll about the grounds, admiring the lush gardens and nice weather to help calm him down. Martin talks about the few flights he still does, as he's passed the physical tests for pilots even at his age, as Douglas listens on with semi-rapt attention. He knows Douglas isn't comprehending any of what he says, but the stream of conversation is good for him anyway, or so the doctors say.

 

Sometimes Martin finds him in one of silent contemplation, staring at a book he'd read numerous times that now is, for all intents and purposes, as if it were written in a foreign language, waiting patiently while perusing the pages until Martin visited to read to him the words that no longer make sense but "sound lovely coming from you, love." Douglas no longer makes a fuss over being unable to read anymore, that day is long past. He certainly can't play the piano anymore, that day was even longer past. Even the soft music he listens to every day is unknown to him. All these things make Douglas introspective. It's impossible for Martin to know what's going on in his head, but the times he's found Douglas staring out the window of his home were the most peaceful he'd seen him. Those visits he would talk about MJN, about the few stories that were appropriate he knew about from his time in university. Anything to help Douglas remember those days, even if he doesn't. Martin wants to keep remembering it.

 

The worst mood to find him in is one of absolute despair, when he tries so desperately hard to remember Hannah's name and it slips through his fingers once more. Martin can't bear to see him like that but sometimes it happens and he's the one who has to calm the soon sobbing man down with careful, gentle fingers through his hair and muttered assurances. Hannah visits occasionally when she can, though she's often busy with her work. It's not like Douglas can easily remember her anymore. Martin knows how painful that is for her, Douglas can barely recognize Martin anymore as well, and often forgets momentarily. Then he exclaims how he couldn't forget that hair and gives Martin the widest smile he's seen as if every visit were their first meeting that rainy day in the portocabin.

 

Walking down the hallway Martin had memorized with his slow, sure steps that had once been filled with youthful zeal, he wondered just what he'd be in for today when he found himself at room 384. He decided to show up early in the morning, though he knew Douglas had been sleeping more during the day lately. True to form, the man was sleeping, curled up in his bed as much as his degenerating joints would allow, hugging the body pillow Martin gave him. Martin knew Douglas didn't sleep well without someone next to him, and as often as he stays over, Martin considers taking him home. The doctors told him it was normal for people at his stage to sleep during the day, they were often confused about time itself by now. He'd wait for him to wake up, though, even if it took hours, as he settled into the armchair that sat next to his bed. Douglas' face lit up whenever Martin was around, and he knew he didn't know just how long he'd have with him at this point. Might as well make the most of it...he didn't have anywhere else to be for the time being.

 

\------

 

_It was just one name, one name three years ago._

 

_"That girl, what was her name...you know, the one in that one movie....blast, I can't for the life of me remember her name."_

 

_Initially it took a few seconds. Then a minute. Then three. Then five...._

 

_Martin knew Douglas had an impeccable memory for everything and anyone. He could remember things he'd done back in university when he was less than sober, even after all these years. He could remember exactly what part of the lake he'd played in back home in his youth and how cold the water was, even in the summer. He could remember exactly where his top three favorite restaurants in Lima were down to the street address. As much as Douglas loved to tout that there weren't many things he was bad at, his memory certainly wasn't one of them._

 

_Thus, the first time Douglas took his time in remembering a name, Martin didn't fail to notice, even if Douglas refused to think that he'd done anything different. It was small things for the most part, forgetting a note while ticking away at the piano keys, taking longer to think of sarcastic quips and rebuttals, that sort of thing. Everyone around hardly noticed, though Martin felt every incorrect, dissonant note and second thinking of someone's moniker as a small, almost infinitesimal pang of concern. Martin was the worrying type by nature, but Douglas seemed fine despite the occasional lapses._

 

_Month after month, it escalated. Slowly, Douglas was losing track of things as well._

 

_"I can't find my headphones."_

 

_"Where are my slippers, Martin?"_

 

_"What happened to the bloody TV remote?!"_

 

_The frustration he'd encounter would only be the beginning, but simple memory lapses made the man, proud of his nearly eidetic memory, question his entire mindset loudly and with much emotion. Often he'd write notes down to remind himself of things, only to forget where he'd laid them. Martin tried to help when he could, reminding him verbally, and Douglas lied to him, saying he knew where his notes were. Martin could tell the lies became more transparent over time. The small niggling sense of concern had grown, but to confront Douglas about the matter was a dangerous act. He decided to see where things went._

 

_The night after a disastrous dinner some more months later, Douglas holed himself in his study. Martin had tried to get him to come out but the man, ever the stubborn git he was, wouldn't budge. Martin knew there were so many problems that evening, all on Douglas' end. As much as Martin had tried to assist, Douglas refused the help and tried to go on with his dinner plans as per usual. He'd ended up forgetting who they were having over, even though it was simply Hannah and her husband and children, and how to make the steak and pasta dishes he was going to serve, which turned out absolutely terrible, though no one said a word out of respect for his effort. Hannah and Liam understood what the matter was, of course._

 

_"Don't worry, Martin, it's....it's just one of those things. The kids understand, I explained it to them so they could."_

 

_"It's not that, it's just....I'm sorry you have to see your dad like this, though...."_

 

_"It's no trouble. I figured this sort of thing would happen one day. The only thing for it is to help him along."_

 

_Hannah tried talking to her father, tried to ease his worry, but that was the moment he fled for the privacy of his study as fast as his legs could move him, leaving Martin to show them out. Martin knew Douglas was wracked with guilt for ruining the dinner, though, as cooking was one of his favorite things to do and he'd disappointed them all. After a while of sitting outside the study and listening to himself breathe, Martin spoke, carefully and quietly._

 

_"I think you need help, darling. I'm calling the doctor tomorrow morning."_

 

_\-----_

 

  
_Alzheimer's. Martin knew the name, he knew this was the likely diagnosis, but he still couldn't believe it. Douglas, his faithful husband, would simply deteriorate before his very eyes. He_ was  _deteriorating before his eyes._

 

_And yet the man looked exactly the same._

 

_"Martin, what's the name of this song?" Douglas pointed to a piece of sheet music sitting at the piano he could no longer play, an underlying current of unease in his voice. "I can't read it, what does it say?"_

 

_Martin sighed. He knew Douglas was losing the ability to read more complex books and papers, which frustrated him to no end as it was one of the last things he had to keep his mind sharp, so Martin stepped in before he became distraught, leading him to the sofa to sit more comfortably than on the piano bench._

 

_"It's Chopin's Nocturne, opus nine, number two in E-flat major. This was one you were very fond of playing. Remember Ottery St. Mary? You played it for the lady when we were to move her piano. She absolutely loved it."_

 

_Douglas furrowed his brows in thought. After several minutes, he shook his head. "No....what's Ottery St. Mary?"_

 

_"It's a town near Devon. You made jokes about heaven being full of otters."_

 

_Douglas chuckled. Martin couldn't remember the last time he'd heard that baritone laugh but it sounded off._

 

  
_"_ _I did, did I? Well, I'm sure it won't take long for me to find out."_

 

_Martin could only gape before spluttering. "Douglas! Don't talk like that, you'll live long into your hundreds."_

 

_"Not if I put a stop to it."_

 

_Martin couldn't believe what he was hearing. This was nothing like the self-confident, strong man Martin knew. Behavioral changes were normal, and Douglas was no different. He'd become morose and brooding, choosing to lock himself away in his study or the bedroom most times for long periods on end. Throwing his arms around Douglas' shoulders, he nearly sobbed as he shouted. "Don't say that, please don't say that...."_

 

_Douglas only stared at the piece of music from across the room, his face gaunt. "I can't read. I can't play piano. I can't remember one bloody thing after another. I'm not the man I was, Martin....I can't live this way."_

 

_They spent the next hour with Martin holding him tightly, trying to get him to shut up while Douglas kept on about how life wasn't worth living if he couldn't be the articulate, suave man he had once been. Eventually, Douglas stopped his stream of self-deprecating statements, but Martin knew they were still going round and round in that brain of his. Martin could only shower affection upon Douglas, making it known in muttered sobs that he couldn't do what he insinuated. Martin wouldn't let him, and when one Martin Crieff was determined, nothing could stop him._

 

_\-----_

 

_"What do I do?"_

 

  
_More months passed. Martin had few options when it came to advice from those close to them, and Douglas was only getting worse. As responsibly and surprisingly well as Arthur was running MJN, he was still not quite the best for advice on this sort of matter, not to mention the fact that he was still getting over losing Carolyn. The same went for Becca and Riley, his wife and son. He even emailed Theresa, hoping he could glean some know_ _ledge from her, but to no avail._

 

_Then there was Herc._

 

_Herc was just about as old as Douglas, give or take a couple of years, but unlike the man that Martin was living with, Herc was surprisingly sharp-minded even in his old age. Where Douglas had a slow decline despite his decadent wardrobe and style, Herc was aging with grace, notable in his standard hairstyle now more light gray than dark, the casual, yet elegant clothing he wore, and most importantly, the strong as ever way Herc held himself, even while requiring a cane which was made out of only the finest materials. He, too, was still grieving the loss of Carolyn, but Martin knew he would take it hard and still be able to focus on other things._

 

  
_Martin called him up and met him over at his flat. He wasn't nervous, per se, but he wasn't sure what Herc was going to tell him were things he'd want to hear._ _They made small talk as Herc cleaned his flat, but the ever-present elephant in the room practically stomped any easy vibes away. Martin's anxious chuckles to Herc's somewhat forced acerbic wit were not enough to keep the mood light, and eventually their real reason for meeting began when Martin uttered four simple words._

 

_"There isn't much you can do, Martin, besides make him comfortable and keep him safe." Herc told him as he settled into an armchair slowly, poured tea for them both once settled, and held his cup to his lips. Martin didn't comment on the flashes of pain he saw on Herc's face with the movements. "How bad is it now?"_

 

_"Well, he's forgotten to wear coats when we go out, but he's able to do most things for himself....he does get lost when we're out in public, though, which really worries me. He doesn't know where we are most times, even at home. He still knows where he grew up but not the name of the town." Martin kept listing things off until Herc held up a hand._

 

_"Martin, have you considered putting him in a home? I know there are plenty of assisted living options available, some of my friends live in..."_

 

_Martin pondered the possibility, Herc's talking merely white noise in the backdrop of the maelstrom of thought. He'd been wanting to stave off the inevitable for so long, he thought that even though the doctor said he would only get worse that there might be some improvement. Now, however, things were getting out of his control and Martin detested when things got that way._

 

_He'd start looking. Nothing confirmed, nothing set in stone, but he had to consider it. It was Douglas' health he had to consider now._

 

_\------_

 

_"Don't hate me for this, but-"_

 

_Douglas sat in his customary armchair, a mug of lukewarm coffee in his hands so he wouldn't burn himself, looking at Martin with eyes that burned with defiance. "No, I already know what you're planning."_

 

_Martin was stupid to have left the pamphlets out on the coffee table. He'd been researching for weeks assisted living that they could afford and still give Douglas the most amount of freedom. While the man was losing his ability to remember and understand even basic pictures, the impact of the antique style buildings and inviting gardens on the front were enough to spur him into anger. "I'm not leaving here. I'm not leaving and I won't hear anything of it!"_

 

_"But Douglas, I simply can't take care of you like this anymore!" Martin sighed in exasperation. He knew this day would come and he knew Douglas would not agree. By now, he was having trouble picking clothing that would be suitable for the day and Martin couldn't take him out of the house very often after so many incidents with him getting lost. There were only so many times he could thank random passersby for finding his husband before people started getting annoyed, and several actually did. The look on his husband's face when being yelled at for things he couldn't understand was heartbreaking. Martin had nearly hit one or two of them, a simple clip 'round the ear as he learned to do long ago._

 

_"You don't need to take care of me, I'm fine how I am. I'm not leaving." Douglas replied, simply drinking his coffee and grimacing._

 

_Martin had long since stopped resisting once that familiar line was spoken. The doctor said it was common for patients to refuse help, insisting they were fine, and he was told it would be like fighting a petulant child after a while so one had to make the choices for them. Martin couldn't deny the resemblance. Still, he knew somewhere in Douglas' mind was the real reason why he wouldn't leave, and Martin knew exactly what it was. Hugging the man's shoulders and petting his hair, Martin pondered his words carefully._

 

_"I know you don't want to leave me. I don't want you to leave me, either. I know you don't like being alone. I promise you won't be alone, Douglas, I just have to make sure you're safe. I'll visit every day, though you know I still occasionally fly for Arthur now that he's taking care of MJN. Remember our trip to Helsinki? You were so invested in those orchids...."_

 

_Martin knew he was babbling, and if Douglas even acknowledged the words for the sentimental value they held, Martin couldn't tell. He was more reassuring himself at this point._

 

_Reassuring himself of what, specifically, Martin didn't know._

 

_\------_

 

_The move went less than smoothly. They woke up the morning of, Martin nervous and Douglas quite defiant. He would barely eat breakfast, something Martin noted as a concern to the doctors and nurses at the assisted living facility. He fussed over his hair in the mirror over and over until Martin helped with an exasperated sigh, having already helped him pick out clothes for the day, a nice sweater and some slacks._

 

_"Something nice, you know, since it's an important day and all." Martin said with a smile, though his nerves were already frayed around the edges._

 

_"It's a terrible day, might as well be wearing all black." Douglas replied._

 

_"Shush, darling! Don't speak like that, you'll like it." Martin didn't even want to hear such a thing. "Now come on, I'll make you some tea and you can relax while I finish cleaning things up."_

 

_Martin put Douglas' headphones over his ears and played the music he knew Douglas loved. It was something from Der Rosenkavalier, one of his favorite operas. Letting him rest in his armchair, Martin packed his things. There wasn't much, three divorces in the span of fifty years and then thirty more of being in a stable, if modest relationship didn't give him many things that they didn't share. Putting the bags and boxes into their Lexus, Martin was reminded of his old van with a pang of nostalgia._

 

_Icarus Removals had died out, though not of unpopularity so much as it lost its necessity once MJN received more business and Carolyn was able to pay Martin at last. Luckily, that meant they had both built up a decent amount for their eventual retirement. Martin still went on the occasional flight. He never got paid, of course, even though Arthur absolutely insisted. Martin loved flying for the sake of flying. There was nothing he had wanted to do more his entire life, and his entire life hadn't finished yet, so there was still time enough for him to reach the sky and do what came naturally to him._

 

_When done, Martin led the now somewhat complacent Douglas to the car. Douglas, on his part, started patting down his pockets._

 

_"Martin....I don't remember where my keys are. Where are my keys?"_

 

_"Don't worry, I have them." Martin learned quickly that a Douglas left with car keys can only lead to hysterical calls to 999 and panicking after he went missing for hours. He was found by police driving on the wrong side of the M6 going north, something Martin vowed wouldn't happen again._

 

_"I haven't driven for a while. It would be nice to see what this old girl could do...."_

 

_"No, Douglas, you can't drive. Now get in, I'll help you with your seatbelt."_

 

_Like a child, Douglas refused to sit still until Martin barked at him to do so. One last measure of defiance quashed, Martin got into the driver's seat and started the car. It felt odd, like he was sending Douglas away forever. Martin knew that was preposterous, of course, but there was still that niggling feeling at the back of his mind._

 

_"Martin?"_

 

_"Yes, love, what is it?"_

 

_"I love you."_

 

_With that, Douglas remained quiet for the rest of the trip._

 

_\------_

 

_A few more months passed._

 

_"Hello, Douglas. How are you today?" An easy smile graced his lips._

 

_A familiar creasing of the forehead and furrowing of brows. He'd become used to it._

 

_"Who are you?"_

 

_The smile faded._

 

_".....it's Martin, love. Martin Crieff. Your husband."_

 

_"Oh. Right."_

 

_\------_

 

Martin decides he'll move Douglas out. He knows Douglas' health is failing, the doctors haven't given him a good prognosis. With the severe liver damage and various other things a life filled partially with cigarettes and alcohol and partially with an excess of decadent food and luxuries can garner, it's a wonder he's lived this long. Martin refuses to think that way, though. Douglas is stubborn, he'll live every minute he possibly can and be damned if he doesn't try living a couple more past that. He just knows the man would want nothing more than to be at home, even if he doesn't know where home is anymore.

 

One day, he shows up to room 384 with boxes. It's an extraordinarily good day, Douglas knows who he is, and who Hannah is, as Martin enlisted her help.

 

"Hello, Martin....and Hannah, sweetheart, I don't ever see you anymore..."

 

Hannah merely smiles. "I know, Dad, I've been very busy." She knows not to mention how she's stopped by several times this week.

 

"Douglas, how would you like to go home with me?" Martin says, smiling happily.

 

"But...I am home, aren't I?" The confusion is clear on his face. Martin inwardly smacks himself, he should have clarified.

 

"Yes, but....I mean  _my_  home. Where we both used to live? It's much nicer there. All your old things are right where they were."

 

Douglas processes this, though they both know he's not understanding a word they're saying, before a wide smile graces his lips. "Of course I'd love to, Captain. Let's go home, shall we?"

 

Martin's thrown completely off.

 

He hasn't heard his long-retired rank being used by that voice in decades. He's not even sure Douglas is referring to him specifically or if it's the broken shards of a memory he still might have clung onto. The bravado in the words, so foreign now to Martin's ears, points to the latter.

 

Swallowing whatever sobs he had and pushing back the tears that threatened to show themselves, he put all his energy into packing Douglas' meager possessions. He and Hannah carry them out to the Lexus, where Martin, who tried to be so strong throughout the years, finally breaks down.

 

"I can't do this, I've helped him for so long but I just can't see him this way!"

 

There's comforting hands on his shoulders, trying to soothe him. Hannah doesn't say anything, merely letting him vent.

 

"The way he called me Captain, it just....it reminded me of how he used to be and how I won't have that man ever again and how he's not going to...be...."

 

Coherent words now fall into tattered, heaving sobs. He's collapsed and sits against the side of the car, burying his face into his knees. Hannah sits by him and lets him be, rubbing his shoulders gently. 

 

Hannah's a Richardson by nature. She doesn't cry, even when she probably should be doing so, like right now. She channels whatever emotions she has into helping others, fixing their problems. In a lot of ways, she's identical to her father. That's why she merely lets Martin cry on her shoulder while she keeps her stoic face on. She and Martin have always gotten along swimmingly, ever since she first met him as a child when Mum finally allowed a visit. So when Martin reached out to her for assistance, how could she say no? It was her own father, after all, and while not all fathers are worth helping, Douglas Richardson is not one of them. Even though his relationship with her was and always had been long-distance in many ways, she always knew Dad was paying attention to her, thinking of her, and worrying over her.

 

Eventually, she gets Martin to stand and finish the rest of the packing. She offers to retrieve Douglas for him, which Martin accepts gratefully. He wants to look the least red-eyed and nosed as he can, though he's entirely sure Douglas won't notice. The keen eyes that once spotted minutiae a mile away have now become dulled with age and disease. Still, best to look positive.

 

Douglas and Hannah show up several minutes later, accompanied by a nurse. His walking has become slowed and painful, but he refuses to walk with a cane or walker. Stubborn old bat. Martin smiles, ignoring the pangs of hurt in his heart.

 

"You're doing so well, darling, walking on your own like that. Come, let's get you in the car."

 

Martin and Hannah maneuver him into the backseat. The nurse shows her trepidation over the decision and tells Martin such before he gets in the driver's seat.

 

"I wouldn't bring him home with you, Mr. Crieff. He's doing very poorly, he'll soon need more help than you can give him..."

 

Martin looked her straight in the eyes, not a difficult feat given his modest five-foot seven frame, but his eyes still held the confident gaze of command in them. It was easy to bring it back once he needed it.

 

"He would want to be brought home, miss. I know how his health is faring, and even if he doesn't know where he is, the man I knew and married would want to be at home when he...."

 

Martin can't bring himself to say the last words. His silence speaks them anyway.

 

"Well, in any case, I'll hire a nurse to attend to him from the comforts of our home if it comes to that."

 

With that said, they leave. Martin feels he's doing the right thing, watching Douglas survey the scenery outside his window through the rear view mirror. His is a look of confusion, but that's a normal feature on that face now. Every now and again, though, the tiniest hints of a smile grace those lips and Martin can only guess as to what brings them on.

 

Martin only smiles in return, he wanted Douglas to be happy.

 

\-----

 

_It happens quietly one day._

 

_In hindsight, Martin figures that was how it would happen. As much as Douglas was a man of grandeur in his youth, in his old age he became modest, even before his illness kicked in. Less fancy food, less money spent, more appreciation for that which he already had._

 

_There were no heartfelt last words uttered, aside from one sentence Martin still hears in his dreams, echoed by a million different iterations of the same man. One beams, a youthful vigor on his face almost as guileless as a child. Another grins, eyes full of mischief and lies, a look Martin knew to mean he was doing something he shouldn't be. Another looks guilty, yet hopeful, the expression found in the aftermath of their arguments. And the last, the man he sees lying in bed at that very last moment, trying to form a smile on lips that have long lost the ability, cracking open for the words he knew, somewhere in his mind, would be his lasting memory. Martin knew he wouldn't say anything profound, he rarely remembered or understood anything anymore. Except four words. Four simple words that had felt like a large stone fell straight onto Martin's heart._

 

_"I love you...Captain."_

 

_Then there's only icy silence. Martin would swear to the end of his days that he sees wings flash into existence, gossamer feathers gleaming white, if only just for a moment._

 

_Then those dark eyes shut, and Martin knows he's gone._

 

 

 

_He can only hope those wings serve him well, wherever he's gone._

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> I would just like to say that the room number 384 is not random. What the meaning is is something I'll let you all figure out. You're smart people, I'm an idiot.
> 
> Also the car mishap was something that happened to my grandfather, which is why it sounds so specific. I just changed things around from Tennessee highways to English ones. That was the first moment that I remember that signaled he was in very grave circumstances, but I'm sure he'd been badly off for a while, which is why I laid it out as such.
> 
> I just remembered what my next fic I'm working on is and oh my god is it stupid, but it'll be good, I hope.


End file.
